by N. D. Jones
“You mean to tell me you want me for my mind and not my body?” Her flirtatious laughter aroused the inner cat and the man. “You’re a rare man, Special Agent Berber.”
Assefa crushed her body against his. “I want your mind to want me first, then your body. But make no mistake, if you’re offering—”
Sanura playfully swatted Assefa on his shoulder and then kissed him on the lips. She melted into his tight embrace, pressing her breasts against his hard chest. Oh, yes, the cat purred now. The beginnings of a demanding roar threatened.
Encouraged by this openly sensual side of Sanura, Assefa gently probed her mouth with his tongue, sliding in deep and finding her own waiting. So sweet, the woman tasted so sweet, her tongue lively, soft, and skilled.
And he took all she offered, sucking and nipping and tasting. Playing, teasing, and wrenching a moan from her.
Assefa’s large hands chartered a path from her back, down her toned waist, and farther south to her ripe ass. He squeezed—both cheeks—then pulled her forward, sliding her against his unrepentant erection.
She gasped.
He groaned.
And he kissed her deeper, taking and giving and wanting more from Sanura than he knew she was ready to give. But, damn, the way she was kissing him back, rubbing enticingly against him, it was clear there was at least one thing she wanted from him. But Assefa desired more than that. Want all of Sanura, not just her body.
But he had a plan. Winning a witch was not for the faint of heart.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Let’s try this again.”
Sanura looked up from the laptop and saw Assefa standing at the door to the lecture hall, her students noisily filing past him, clearly relieved to have one final exam out of the way.
“I believe this is what is called déjà vu.”
With the grace of a stalking feline, Assefa made his way down the steps, the jacket of his dark-gray suit slung over one shoulder, a brown bag held in his other hand.
Sanura finished closing out her file, safely removed her flash drive, and logged off the computer before shutting it down.
“Not exactly déjà vu,” Assefa said. “We actually never got around to the lunch part.”
Sanura nodded to the brown bag in his left hand. “Smells good.”
“So do you, a secret garden meant only for my pleasure, my indulgence.”
Sanura couldn’t help but smile. Assefa was all unabashed shifter flirtiness. And he made her feel ridiculously charmed.
He placed the bag on the metal table next to the lectern, pulled one chair out for her, waited for Sanura to sit, and then grabbed the chair on the opposite end of the table, placing it next to her.
“I stopped by a deli on my way here. Knew if I got here while class was still in session, I would catch you before you darted off somewhere. Wherever little witch professors go during their break.” He eyed his watch, a gold-and-onyx timepiece that looked like it cost more than she made in three months. “You have nearly two hours before your next class.”
Sanura didn’t bother to ask how Assefa had known her Tuesday schedule. He would probably consider it an insult to his FBI investigative skills if she did so.
Smoothing out invisible wrinkles from a well-pressed suit jacket, Assefa primly hung the garment over the back of his chair. Then he deftly swung his blue-and-gray tie over his shoulder before digging into the bag and pulling out a one-ounce bottle of unscented hand sanitizer. He handed the clear bottle to Sanura, and she couldn’t resist smiling at the special agent. Gods, the man was unbelievably proper, bordering on anal-retentive. She kept sanitizing wipes in her satchel and her car, but she’d never known a guy to be as fastidious about what he put on and in his body as Assefa Berber.
“There’s nothing funny about germs, Sanura,” he said, tone prickly and all too serious.
Because he was too adorable and outrageously uptight, Sanura found herself laughing.
“Do you know how many germs full-humans transmit every second of the day? They’re either sick, getting over an illness, or preparing for the next infirmity.”
She howled now, not very ladylike, but she really couldn’t help it. During his little speech about full-humans and germs, he’d squeezed two squirts of hand sanitizer into the palm of one hand and rubbed them vigorously together. Then, apparently for good measure, did it again.
Sanura wiped the tears from her eyes. “By the gods, Assefa, you’re a were-cat. When was the last time you were sick?”
His eyes narrowed to brown slits of annoyed male huffiness. “That’s not the point.”
No, that was exactly her point. Were-cats had the immune system of a tank. Most full-human diseases couldn’t touch them. Witches weren’t quite that durable, but they, too, had constitutions much stronger than that of a full-human. All preternaturals did.
“Can you spell OCD, Special Agent Berber?”
“Maybe, but I can spell spanking, which is what I’m going to give you if you don’t start showing a bit more appreciation for this romantic gesture.”
“Ohhh, is that what this is supposed to be?”
Napkins, plates, utensils, spring water, fruit bowls, and two chicken salad wraps were pulled from the bag, neatly and equally distributed before the two of them. Assefa was a surprisingly good waiter.
“You know, Sanura, it’s a good thing I enjoy looking at your legs so much or I would take my hard-ordered lunch and leave.”
She laughed again then blushed when she realized what he’d said about her legs and where his eyes had settled.
“Do you ever wear pants, woman?” Ravenous eyes were fixed on the objects of his pleasure. “Or do you like torturing men?”
She crossed her legs, a slow, gliding movement that brought her rose-design skirt mid-thigh. “Am I torturing you, Special Agent Berber?”
He reached out and placed one of those huge hands of his on her knee. And just as slowly as she’d crossed them, his hand made a languid trek from her knee to her thigh, the touch gentle, the skin he stroked undeniably receptive. Then that hand of his extended his expedition farther north, traveling under skirt and claiming his newfound land with massaging fingers.
Sanura bit back a moan. Who was doing the torturing now?
“I love it when you wear skirts and dresses, especially without stockings.”
Yeah, she could tell, his hand still working her leg, stirring the unaligned magical energy between them.
She sucked in a breath and forced herself to say, “M–maybe we should eat the lunch you brought. It looks really good.”
“When I was a kid,” Assefa began, leaning into her, his face enticingly close, “I used to eat my dessert first.” His lips lightly touched hers. “What about you, my leggy witch, would you like to have dessert first?”
Gods, yes.
Assefa’s other hand came up to a shoulder, stroked, then slid down to her waist, and then pulled Sanura onto his lap. She went, wrapping her arms around his neck.
“I thought about you all weekend. About you and the handfasting.”
She’d thought about him as well, wanting to see Assefa but not daring to call. He had last-minute bureau business that required his immediate attention. He hadn’t gone into detail. But that also meant she hadn’t seen or spoken to him in four days. And, to her surprise, she’d found herself thinking about and missing the special agent. Now it was Tuesday, only three days before the handfasting.
“A phone call would’ve been nice.”
“It would’ve,” he too amiably agreed. “So why didn’t you call me?”
Touché.
“I know how dedicated you are to your work. I didn’t want to take time away from your assignment.” And it had unnerved me how much I wanted to hear your deep, sensual voice, see your smiling, seductive eyes. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Assefa tightened his arms around her waist. “I didn’t want to seem too forward, too pushy.” He moved one hand to her face. A single finger found her nos
e, her lips, her rapidly pulsing neck. He kissed her there. “Besides, before I left, Mike made it his business to call and tell me that you only date full-humans. Is that true?” He lifted his head, gaze questioning and intense.
Damn the dwarf and his interfering ways. Why in the hell would he tell Assefa such a thing? Ah, that’s right, because he thinks no one is good enough for me. Insufferable busybody.
“Not anymore,” she said smoothly, hoping he wouldn’t pry further or was offended. Because she could see how Assefa could be righteously insulted. Heck, she would be if he’d told her he’d never dated a witch before as if there was something so awful about witches that he couldn’t bring himself to date one. Yes, he had every right to be offended. But no one understood why Sanura didn’t date shifters. She had her reasons, and they were her own.
Yet there had been one person who’d, while not knowing the specifics of her decision, had posed a critical question to her one day. “How do you expect to find your true mate, if you limit your dating pool to full-humans?” She should’ve confided in her father that day. He would’ve listened, understood, and given her advice on how best to handle a were-cat of Assefa’s caliber. “Whatever frightens you, precious, you can’t outrun your destiny. It simply isn’t done.” Sage words, Sanura was beginning to hesitantly admit.
“So, I’m the exception to your ‘no shifter’ rule?”
She didn’t like the way he said that, so she decided to take it as a rhetorical question. Sanura was enjoying his company too much to let Mike and her so-called “no shifter rule” spoil their time together.
“Why me?” he asked, filling the silence with another question.
Never the easy questions from her special agent, but this one she didn’t mind answering.
“Because I’m attracted to you. Because you’re the poster child for contradictions and I enjoy each one of them. You’re funny when you’re being so damn serious. You have a kind heart and protective nature that reminds me so much of my father.” Too much. “You’re insanely bright and wickedly handsome.” You’re my dream posing as reality.
He winked at her. “I knew I could get you to make that list for me.”
She shook her head, lips lifting up in amusement.
“Now for my dessert.” He kissed her.
And she kissed him back, glad he was probing her mouth instead of her mind, her heart. She relaxed in his arms and luxuriated in the scent of the man. Pheromones tempted her senses and hands aroused her body.
She could do this for the whole of her break. Let him mold her body to his, ravaging her mouth with his masterful tongue. Deeper under his spell she sank, his kisses and hands magical talismans promising devotion, love, and protection. Everything a were-cat willingly gave to his witch and all a witch granted in return to her cat, her mate. The thought delighted and frightened, mixed emotions she conveniently ignored. Assefa’s sensual attentions demanded nothing less from Sanura.
Abruptly, Assefa broke the kiss and looked behind him and up the stairs. “Did you hear that?”
My heart doing double-time? “I didn’t hear anything.”
“It sounded as if someone had opened then closed the door.” His eyes were still cast away from her, his focus on the door and the sound he thought he’d heard. “Maybe I should check.”
“It’s probably nothing, Assefa.” She touched his cheek, encouraging his attention away from the door and back to her. “You make for a very comfortable chair and a more divine first-course meal.”
His smile told her, along with the hand that had reappeared on her thigh, that she’d succeeded in reclaiming his attention. Good.
“I’ll be here Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday for lunch. Don’t make any other plans. I’ll bring the dessert; you wear the skirts.”
The man had a leg fetish. But Sanura did like to wear skirts, even during the cold winter months. More importantly, she’d found she couldn’t resist Assefa’s scrumptious dessert choice.
She reclaimed his mouth, not quite done with her meal.
Richard stood statue-still, making sure to not make a sound. That had been close. And damn Sanura Williams. What in the hell did she think she was doing with that fucking agent? She had been all over him, sitting on his lap, tongue buried in his mouth.
And Richard didn’t even want to think about where the big bastard’s hands had been. Touching her as if she were his. Like he owned her. Don’t think so, asshole, you’re just the rebound guy.
Richard rushed away from the building, pushing past throngs of end-of-year happy students. Their good cheer made him want to vomit. He was the one who was supposed to be happy. He’d given Sanura a little more time to think about what he had said to her. He’d waited, been patient. Knew she would see the error in her thinking and take him back.
But all the while, she’s been screwing the special agent behind my back, trying to make a fool of me.
Richard popped two aspirin in his mouth as soon as he’d reached his office. He would teach her, make her pay for playing him for the fool. Today sealed it. After Friday, Sanura would know that her special agent couldn’t protect her or her family. No, Richard held all the power. And she would find out, learn what true love was all about.
Genji Zhou-Garvey watched her friends as they laughed and played. Reisterstown Road Plaza was one of their hangout spots. It wasn’t as big as Towson Commons Mall, nor did it have a theater. It was just a tiny plaza with stores that fit the budget of working-class and middle-class northwest Baltimoreans. Nothing special, but it had a decent enough pizza joint, and Gen and her girlfriends loved the greasy, cheesy stuff.
“Gen, do you wanna go half on a pepperoni pizza or are you avoiding pork like Malcolm X over there?” Jalia asked, jutting her thumb in their friend Keisha’s direction.
“Hey, I’m no Muslim. I just don’t do pig. They eat any damn thing, and I don’t wanna eat something that has no dietary standard.” Keisha shooed an annoying fly from her face, looking at Jalia as if she wanted to shoo her, as well.
“‘Dietary standards,’” Jalia mocked. “You sound like Mrs. Etheridge.”
“Hey, health is my favorite subject. Maybe if you paid more attention in class, you wouldn’t put so much crap in your big, fat mouth. Now,” Keisha said to Gen, “hand me one of those chocolate donuts with sprinkles.”
Gen laughed. “Look, let’s just grab a cheese pizza and some soda. This place is starting to get crowded, and I can’t be out too late. Curfew, you know.”
“Yeah, I know.” Keisha pulled her cell phone from a back pants pocket. “My mom got me on lockdown with this thing. I begged and begged, thinking I could use it to keep in touch with you guys and Andre, but she uses it to track my behind wherever I go.”
“Hell, yeah, a regular GPS, and she pays the bills, so she knows every call you make, including when you text Andre, which is usually during last period when you should be learning U.S. history.” Gen handed the cashier her portion of the bill. A five. No change.
The three friends sat in a booth, greasy cheese pizza soaking through the too-thin paper plates.
“So, Gen, how are the foster parents? They seem pretty cool, as far as adults go, and they’re actually not that old.” Jalia washed down a bite of pizza she’d just taken with a swallow of half-and-half. How anyone liked the taste of tea and lemonade mixed together, Gen would never know. For her, it was one or the other, not both.
“They’re good people. I really like Cyn, cool, like you said.”
“I can’t believe you get to call Principal Garvey by her first name,” Keisha said. “Aren’t you afraid she’ll give you detention if you call her that at school? Not that she’s actually the principal of the high school, but adults don’t seem to care about little details like that.”
The threesome chuckled, and Gen felt happy, the kind of happiness that had abandoned her when her mother had died eighteen months ago. Cynthia and Eric Garvey had opened their home to her, treating Gen with true kindness and affection.
With them, she could be herself, no longer forced to hide her witch identity.
The same was true with her new friends. In fact, The Witch Council of Elders formed private schools throughout the U.S., where witches and were-cats could attend and learn their craft without the threat of discovery. The educational institutions were havens for her kind. The school Gen and her friends attended, Sankofa Preparatory School, served grades K-12, accepting residential and non-residential students from the Maryland, DC, and Virginia areas. Life in Baltimore had turned out to be infinitely better than her years in San Francisco.
Gen looked up at the black circular clock on the wall, then focused her gaze to the mural behind it. The painting was of a couple relaxing in a gondola, taking in the sights of old Italy. The colors were faded and the images lacked true talent, but it was beautiful all the same. It made Gen wish to see such a place in person, feel the warmth of the Tuscan sun on her skin. Then Gen wondered how many Chinese witches actually lived in Italy. Probably none, she concluded, now thinking how nice it would be to visit China, her mother’s home. But would China be any more accepting of a witch than Italy would be of a Chinese girl? Probably not.
“I have to get home before it gets too late. Curfew,” Gen said, by way of explanation, an hour and a half after she and her friends had stuffed themselves, gossiped, and flirted with a few guys from Northwestern High School.
“Me, too,” her friends answered in unison.
They made their way through the bustling Friday night crowd, moving to the glass doors and exit. Once outside and at the southbound bus stop, Jalia touched the bracelet on her wrist, and then looked at Gen.
“Are you sure? None of us should be out without a protective charm. It’s dangerous.”
“Yeah, Gen, maybe you should call Mrs. Garvey and have her pick you up. We’ll wait with you,” Keisha said, her brown eyes full of a friend’s concern.